Russell
struggled after him, his mind still churning with the peculiar events of the
morning. It was about half an hour later when he looked up and determined where
they were going, to a hidden glen which was accessible only from the top of
Eden Point. On three sides it was surrounded by steep cliffs on which trees
clung with roots as thick as a man's arm. Down by the water, where the earth
had been gradually washed away, their roots stood up, bare and crooked and
twisted about one another. It was like an infinite number of serpents which had
wanted all at the same time to crawl up out of the pool but had gotten
entangled in one another and held fast.
Russell
knew the spot. There were old wives in Mortemouth who claimed it was haunted.
As Lord Eden started down the steep side, Russell called out anxiously,
"Is it safe, milord?"
Lord
Eden looked back. "Nothing's safe, Russell. Come along."
Russell
hesitated. Then, because he had no choice, he followed after him, although he
kept a keen eye on the roots sticking up above the water like a many-armed
monster.
Once
down at sea level, muddy from the descent and breathless with exertion, Russell
stood a distance apart, watching closely as Lord Eden went hurriedly to a
nearby thicket. Russell saw him bend over and feel about inside the luxurious
green growth as though searching for something.
When
a moment later, without hesitation or apology, he raised up, bringing with him
a white, gleaming, grinning human skull, Russell retreated.
"Wait!"
Lord Eden called out, grinning like the skull. "He's harmless. See?"
He thrust the skull close for Russell's inspection, while Russell clung to
low-hanging branches, certain beyond any doubt that his Lordship was mad.
"Don't
be afraid, Russell," Lord Eden soothed. "This is my friend. Remember?
I told you about him, about how I'd found him here when I was a boy. Fully
clothed in his flesh he was then, and bloated." He lightly dusted a speck
of clinging earth from an eye cavity. "On my word, he looks better
now." He held the skull up to the sun and peered closely at it in apparent
seriousness, he inquired, "Do you recognize him?"
Quickly
Russell shook his head, still grasping the branches of a nearby tree, ready at
the slightest provocation to swing upward to safety. "No, milord," he
replied. "I wasn't even in my mother's womb when—"
"When
I was a boy?" Mournfully Lord Eden concurred. "Right you are,"
he agreed. "Our ages separate us, but our curiosities must bring us
together." Again he held the skull upward. "Nothing familiar about
him at all?" he asked.
In
the rising heat of the morning, insects buzzed close. Russell shook them away
and tried to make of his face a stone image of interest and cooperation. "A
fisherman, perhaps," he offered, "drowned at sea and washed
ashore?"
"He
wasn't dressed as a fisherman," Lord Eden said.
A
legitimate question occurred to Russell and he asked it. "How do you know
it's the same man? Perhaps—"
Adamantly
Lord Eden shook his head. "It's the man. I told no one. I buried him
myself over there." And he pointed toward the thicket. "He was my
friend"—he smiled—"and my nightmare." He took the skull with him
and sat heavily on a nearby rock, his face mournful again. "As a child, I
came here hoping to find a sea nymph. Instead I found him." He fell into a
deep study of the skull as though recognition was on the verge of breaking.
Russell
watched and felt himself on the verge of breaking as well. He longed for the
cool darkness of the castle, the quiet freedom of his normal mornings. He did
not understand what he was doing here, or what possible fascination Lord Eden
found in the grinning macabre sight.
Still
Lord Eden fondled the skull. Softly he asked, "Are you afraid of death,
Russell?"
"I
fear I am, milord. Isn't everyone?"
Lord
Eden shook his head. "Ragland wasn't. Ragland longed for death. The girl,
Elfie, wasn't. She provided it with her own hand. And I don't think your sister
is. She's looked it square in the face."
Russell
felt a slight annoyance at the reference to his sister. "She's
simpleminded," he blurted, forgetting the propriety of a conversation
between servant and master, the servant's right to respond only when spoken to.
He lowered his head. "I beg your pardon, milord," he muttered.
With
admirable largess Lord Eden brushed his apology aside with a firm
contradiction. "Not simpleminded, Russell," he said, laughing softly.
"You must never deceive yourself on that matter."
Rebuked,
Russell lowered his head. "As you say, milord," hoping to conclude
the subject.
Unfortunately
Lord Eden had other ideas. He laid the skull aside and sat upright on the rock,
his face earnest. "Would you have any idea why she won't have me?" he
asked, simply, almost childlike.
Russell
stared back at him. Was it possible that Lord Eden had spent the entire winter
puzzling over such a silly question? "She's scarcely worth your time,
milord. There are countless others—"
"But
I don't want others," Lord Eden broke in.
To
such a forceful confession, Russell could say nothing. He relaxed his grip on
the branches and stood awkwardly at the bottom of the cliff. Dry leaves played
about his feet as if to amuse him.
"Pure,"
Lord Eden mused aloud. "She's pure in God's eyes. The flame of His wrath
has not once touched her."
As
Russell looked up, he saw Lord Eden stand and hurl the skull, as though in
anger, far out into the ocean. It fell with a small plop on a distant breaking
wave and disappeared from sight.
Lord
Eden walked to the ocean's edge and lifted his face to the sea wind as though
deriving actual nourishment from it. Over his shoulder he commanded, "Make
preparations to leave for London, Russell. No later than next week. I'm tired
of winter and cold and skulls and death. Your sister knows something we don't
know, and I think it's time we found out."
As
he warmed to the projected journey, he walked back from the water's edge, his
face lighter, almost pleasant. "This time, Russell," he announced, "I'll
woo her as though she were the finest lady in the realm. I'll court her with
gifts, with coin, with grace, whatever is necessary. It should be great sport.
Are you game?"
Russell
could only gape. His Lordship was mad. London! Good God! It was the last place
Russell wanted to go. He still remembered all too well the beating he'd
received at the hands of city dandies. And had Lord Eden so soon forgotten his
own recent humiliation in London?
For
once, Russell decided, he must assert his opinion, in the name of good sense
and reason. He looked up and met directly the expectant face of his master.
"No, milord," he began. "I object. I think it's imprudent
for-"
Suddenly
Lord Eden lunged forward, both hands extended as though he intended to plant
them around Russell's throat and hold on until he'd successfully choked all
rebuttal out of him. He stopped himself at the last minute, as though under a
severe act of self-discipline.
"Watch
yourself, Locke," he ordered, still reining in his anger. "In almost
sixty years of service to the Eden family, that nobleman Ragland, whose worthy
position you now occupy never once drew a breath in contradiction of his
master's orders." He stepped back, jerkily, as though still practicing
self-restraint. "I warn you," he muttered, "watch yourself. You
occupy your present pleasant position because of your sister and the mutual debts
which bind us together. Nothing else. Is that clear?"
Staggered
by the rapid change of mood, Russell did well to nod. He retreated a step to
increase the distance between them, still keeping a watchful eye on the
smoldering countenance of Lord Eden, who was now pacing the sandy beach in
short erratic steps as though with difficulty digesting his loss of temper.
"We
shall leave within the fortnight!" he shouted at Russell. "So take
your objections by the scruff of the neck and throw them to ground." He lifted
a trembling hand. "Or I shall do it for you," he threatened.
Quickly
Russell hastened to repair the breach. "I have no objection, milord. I
live to serve you."
Lord
Eden nodded broadly. "You live because you serve me," he pronounced
pointedly. "I have taken your entire household save two sisters into the
security of my castle. I clothe and feed the lot of you. In return, I will be
obeyed."
Again
Russell bobbed his head. "I stand ready to serve," he murmured.
"Then
go serve!" thundered Lord Eden. "If you're unfamiliar with the
preparations necessary for such a journey, ask Dolly Wisdom for assistance. But
go on with you now for I can't stand the sight of you."
Russell
scrambled backward, only too pleased to have been dismissed. For several yards
up the mud-wet incline, he was unable to get the necessary traction, and for
every foot forward he skipped and fell backward. He was aware of Lord Eden
watching him. Several minutes later, muddied and breathless, he pulled himself
to the summit, his heart beating too rapidly.
At
the top, he glanced back at Lord Eden, now diminished by distance, still pacing
on the tiny beach, his head bowed, hands locked behind his back, as though
trying to walk off the black moods which plagued him.
Russell
stared down, inferiority on his brow which seemed to press against his eyes,
the eyes themselves mere slits. It was the girl, still the girl, always the
girl. As he walked, he shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked angrily at
small stones. He resembled a schoolboy who had been publicly humiliated for his
slow wits. Always the girl, the curse of his life. It was clear to him now that
Lord Eden had retained his services merely so he could procure the girl for
him.
You
occupy your present pleasant position because of your sister and the mutual
debts which bind us together.
There
was the most painful thought of all. In order to escape it, he broke into a
run, a lung-bursting sprint into the strong westerly winds of the headlands.
He
was nothing, had been born nothing and would remain nothing.
The
girl. Always the girl.
London
June,
1794
"The
British court went into mourning on learning of the execution of Louis the
Sixteenth," read Marianne from the June 13 edition of
The Bloomshury
Gazetteer
.
Her
audience of two, Jane and Sarah, showed little interest in what she was
reading. They concentrated instead on the meager breakfast before them, which
consisted of hard bread and weak tea.
Still
Marianne read on, in a splash of brilliant morning sun, hoping not only to
divert them, but also to let them see that their particular plight had
universal implications. The entire world, not just the red brick house on Great
Russell Street, was crumbling.
She
adjusted the newsprint to the sun, her clear, bell-like voice a curious
contradiction to the capsulized version of the horrible events of the last few
months.
Sarah
interrupted. "Don't need no bloody newspaper to tell me the state of
things. I'm the one who takes the two guineas a week and tries to buy food
enough for three." She pushed away from the cup of pale tea, her eyes
crinkled with worry, her hair growing grayer, or so it seemed to Marianne.
"You
do a good job, Sarah," she soothed. "Jane and I would be quite lost
without you."
The
woman made a harrumphing noise at the tribute. She drew the weak tea back and
sipped at it. She made a face at the cup. "I've thrown out better than
that in the past," she grumbled. "We're going to be starving out
soon," she warned. "Exactly half of them guineas go for food tax now,
and unless Mr. Pitch—"
Softly
Jane groaned, as though the mere sound of the name had reawakened unbearable
memories. She covered her face with her hands.
Silence
descended on the small kitchen. Marianne looked about. How their lives had
changed in the last six months. In order to conserve coal and oil, all three
had moved couches into the kitchen, while the rest of the house had been sealed
off. Jane had sold most of her clothes for what little she could get for them.
In addition, they'd sold a silver service, and two of William's finest
paintings from the Italian Renaissance school. Finally, it had been Marianne
who'd put a halt to the wholesale auction of William's possessions. First, they
had no right, and second, they were realizing only a fraction of the objects'
true worth. Better to have credit, Marianne had said, than give away the art
that William had spent a lifetime acquiring.
Sarah
hadn't seen it that way, nor had Jane at first. But in the beginning the
Bloomsbury tradesmen had been only too happy to extend the women unlimited
credit. After all, they were living in William Pitch's house and William Pitch
was a most solvent man, and surely William Pitch would be home any day now from
his escapades in France.
Marianne
looked despairingly about. She'd thought all winter that with the coming of
summer life would be better. But it wasn't. She recalled how eagerly they all
used to await the morning post, confident that William would send word of his
impending arrival. But they'd received no word, and during the last few weeks
Jane had told them of a persistent nightmare in which she had seen William
dead.
In
spite of the warm sun, Marianne shivered. Sarah pushed away from the table as
though she could no longer endure the lethargy. "There'll be no noon
meal," she warned. "And only winter potatoes for evening." She
held up a canister of seeds. "The sooner we get these in the ground, the
better off we'll be."
Marianne
looked up. "I'll do it," she offered, taking the canister, seeing in
her mind's eye the weed-clogged garden. It would take at least two days to
clear a plot. But Sarah was right. A home supplement of carrots and lettuce, a
summer crop of potatoes, would help. Now all credit was closed to them, and at
least once a week they had to endure the humiliation of the spunging agents,
the men appointed by their creditors to collect their debts.
As
she started toward the back door, she looked at Jane, her heart heavy at the sight
of the desolate woman. How greatly changed they all were, but most of all Jane.
Gone were her lovely gowns and powdered wigs. Now she wore the plain dress of a
serving girl, soiled from too many days' wear, her own hair hanging loose,
streaks of gray mixed in with the black. Her face seemed to have aged in a like
manner, deep erosions appearing on her throat and at the comers of her eyes and
mouth.
In
addition to the physical disintegration, Marianne had observed an equally
devastating disintegration of the spirit. Jane moved through the back rooms of
William's house as spiritless as a zombie, following Sarah's directions as best
she could, but for the most part assuming the role of an invalid. Her new
vulnerability only made her dearer to Marianne.
Almost
moved to tears by the sight of her once gay and handsome sister, Marianne went
back to the table and gently removed the hands which covered her face.
"Come with me," she urged softly. "You can sit in a chair in the
sun. The air will do you good."
But
Jane merely looked at her, a look of confusion on her face, the almost
elemental look of the seriously ill. "I'll help Sarah," she murmured.
At
the sink, Sarah grumbled over her shoulder. "Don't need no help."
Jane
looked up, as though torn between the two courses of action. Tenderly Marianne
resolved the dilemma for her. "Come with me," she urged, lifting her
to her feet. "The sun is lovely. I'm sure we'll need no coal this
week."
Suddenly
fearful, Jane looked about. "The spungers? Will they come again
today?"
"No,
not today," Marianne replied. "They've already come this week."
"But
they'll be back. And it's me they're after." Her fear grew as she looked
about the kitchen. "It's my name on the credit. I'm the one. Don't let
them take me."
As
Jane's fear increased, Marianne wrapped her arms around her, held her as she
would a frightened child. "There," she whispered, with a calmness she
did not feel. "No one will take you, I promise." The two women stood
in close embrace, clinging to each other against the threat of debtors' prison,
old Sarah watching, shaking her head.
Marianne
continued to hold and soothe, aware that her sister's fear was a very real
possibility. Over the last month the spunging agents had grown uglier and more
violent. The last two had actually threatened her, clearly ruffians, brutal men
hired by creditors who perhaps, under the pressure of inflation, were as
financially desperate as themselves.
"Come
along," Marianne said almost sternly, disengaging herself from Jane's
embrace. "Let's work together as we used to do as children in the garden
in Mortemouth." As the image of home flitted across her mind, she felt a
new depression of spirit. In her imagination she saw her father and old Jenny
Toppinger, and she even thought of her half-brother, Russell, and wondered if
he were still playing the dangerous game of smuggling.
She
stepped away from Jane, pleased to see that she was quiet. Retrieving the
canister of seeds with one hand, she slipped the other about her sister's
waist, the two of them moving toward the back door and the warm June sun.
By
noon the sun had risen higher and had grown hotter. Several times Marianne
leaned heavily on the spade. Her dress was soaked with perspiration and her
belly felt cavernous. Sarah had joined her an hour earlier and was following
behind her with a rake, breaking up the heavy clouds of dirt and pulling to one
side the dead weeds. Jane still sat on a small stool, watching the labor with a
blank and unresponding face.
"If
she's going to eat," muttered Sarah, "she should be out here with the
both of us."
"Give
her time," Marianne whispered. A salty stream of sweat slipped into the
comer of her eye, momentarily blinding her. The earth beneath her feet appeared
suddenly liquid. She looked back at the progress she'd made in three hours.
Less than ten feet
"Are
you all right?" Sarah inquired. "Let me do that for a while. You take
the rake."
"No,
I'm fine," insisted Marianne. "Some water would be good."
Sarah
nodded, then turned a critical eye back to Jane. "That's the least she can
do." Before Marianne could stop her, she started off across the newly
turned soil in a determined path which led to Jane.
Weary,
every bone in her body aching, Marianne tried to call after her. But she found
she lacked the energy to lift her voice. She felt mildly ill, the unseasonable
heat rising about her. The scars on her back seemed to be throbbing
individually under the rays of the sun as though each had split and freshly
opened. She leaned heavily on the spade, the heat waves drifting up about her,
carrying memories of another hot day. How many years would have to pass, she
wondered, before she could think on it calmly?
Raising
her head, she saw Jane moving docilely toward the back door, apparently
registering no protest to Sarah's command. Marianne positioned the spade
against the earth, lifted her mud-caked shoe, and pushed with all her might
against the rim. The earth gave, the spade moved downward, and at the same time
the catch in her back exploded into a thousand fiery fingers. She caught her
breath.
Sarah
was beside her, gently but firmly removing the spade from her hand, replacing
it with the lighter rake. "We need you," the woman scolded. "We
need you to read to us and smile for us, for we're no longer capable of
either."
Marianne
started to protest but knew it was useless. The tools traded, Marianne fell in
behind the tall angular woman, admiring the skill and strength with which she
manipulated the spade. "I'm afraid we're both going to resemble farm
women, Sarah," Marianne joked weakly.
"Won't
be nothing new for me," replied the woman. "That's how I was born and
that's how I'll die. Your sisters the one that's hurting."
Suddenly,
as though in confirmation of her words, there came a blood-chilling scream from
the house, Marianne looked sharply at Sarah, then started forward. "The
spungers!' she thought frantically.
She
was aware of Sarah moving beside her, both women struggling for footing in the
moist soil.
"My
God, what is it?" Sarah gasped.
"Hurry!"
Marianne urged, fear mounting, clutching the rake as though prepared to use it
as a weapon.
While
they were still several feet from the back porch, Marianne saw the door swing
open, saw Jane appear, her face, of late so somber, now on the verge of
exploding with excitement. Still emitting a series of softer screams, she
performed a curious little jig up and down, as though she could scarcely
contain her joy. In her hand, held aloft over her head like a trophy, Marianne
saw a large white envelope.
'Oh,
thank God!' she thought. "It's William. She's had word from William."
Sarah
and Marianne reached the steps at the same time, mutually relieved that the
scream had been one of joy. They stood, grinning up at the dancing Jane.
Sarah
grew impatient first. "Well, what is it, girl?" she shouted,
attempting to make herself heard over the excited squeals.
It
had been so long since any of them had had anything to laugh and dance about.
For a second Marianne didn't care about the contents of the letter. Jane would share
her good news soon enough. For now, it was lovely to stand in the warmth of a
June sun, looking up at that laughing face, feeling the deprivation of winter
slip from her shoulders.
Then
her own curiosity got the best of her. "Jane, please," she begged,
shouting as Sarah had done. "What is it? Word from William?"
She
thought she detected a slight change in her sister's enraptured face. But no.
The radiance was intact, though altered, as Jane ceased her mad little jig and
stood breathless, looking down, the white envelope clutched to her breast.
"Well,
what is it?" Sarah demanded again. "How long do we have to beg?"
Jane
looked very serene, almost saintly. "Just a miracle, Sarah," she
replied, sending her eyes heavenward in silent thanks to the source of all
miracles.